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The next day, when Becky woke, it took her a minute to work out where she was.

The wall behind her bed was wallpapered in an outdated, floral pattern, the cladded walls just visible where slivers of daylight peeked in from gaps in the wooden shutters.

She raised herself on her elbows and let her brain update with the events of yesterday.

She was in France – stuck, potentially for a month.

She didn’t feel much clearer on things, but at least she’d slept.

Now, as her mum would say, was the time for action.

Sitting up, she picked up her phone and discovered that it was already nine o’clock. Already she was slipping. Back in England she’d have been up for a couple of hours already. Downstairs she could hear the hum of a coffee machine, the noise of people talking. The café was open.

She pulled her laptop onto her bed from the side table, opened up a notes page on her screen and wrote down her options:

Clarify legal situation.

Becky was no lawyer, but the whole situation around Maud’s conditions felt a little left field. Was everything strictly legal? She’d find out. If there was no legal basis for them, she could go ahead and sell, return to London and resume life as planned.

Cancel flat reservation.

The flat, the opportunity to buy something without involving Mum or too much of a mortgage, was a chance in a lifetime.

But she could still withdraw from the transaction if she couldn’t find another way to force the sale.

Then she’d just have to leave Pascal in perpetuity to run the café until he got bored and finally vacated.

Stay and see it through.

Fate had given her a café, and had also somehow given her a month in which to fulfil her great-aunt’s wishes.

She didn’t have anything else she had to do.

But the thought of taking over the café, even for that short window of time, seemed exhausting.

Surely she was meant to be having a break, not taking on a whole new enterprise?

The list, at least, clarified her thinking.

Out of the three possibilities, she decided, the best situation would be if someone spoke to Pascal on her behalf, explained that Maud’s letter wasn’t legally binding, and sent him on his way.

Then she could finally get the café on the market for a fair price and get on with her life.

With a new burst of energy that came from having a plan, she slipped off the bed and made her way to the small bathroom that Pascal had told her was hers to use.

There was an unfathomably small tin bath there, with no shower attachment and just enough room to sit with her knees up.

With no other options, she popped in the plug and filled the tub with lukewarm water.

Stepping in, she gasped, realising the metal surface had yet to heat, and had the uncomfortable sensation of a cold bottom in a bath of warm water. But she soon adjusted, washed and towel-dried her hair before giving it the best blow-dry she could with her foldable travel hairdryer.

The notaire who had sent the letter and presumably dealt with the rest of Maud’s estate was in a town twenty kilometres away.

But he’d already shown himself to be borderline incompetent.

Perhaps it would be better to get some independent advice?

An internet search revealed that the local mayor had some say over these matters and might be able to advise her; and seeing as the town hall was in the next street, this seemed like a sensible place to start.

She pulled on a pair of navy jeans and a green, short-sleeved blouse, teamed with the heels from yesterday, then made her way down through the café with a cursory bonjour to Pascal, and out into the street.

The freshness was the first thing she noticed.

It was as if all her life she’d been breathing in smog, but had suddenly been gifted clear, cool morning air.

She found herself gulping it in hungrily as if oxygen-starved.

The sun was shining unencumbered by clouds, in a sky that was a deep blue.

She felt the warmth on her shoulders and shivered after the coolness of her old-fashioned room.

Right. This was it. She would be confident, self-assured, and channel her inner mum – steely and determined. She would march into that office, request a meeting and outline her problem. Perhaps she could be booking plane tickets back by the end of the week.

Stepping forward, she instantly stumbled on the uneven pavement, her heel catching in a crack in the stone, sending her almost flying. Her bag dropped to the ground and she crouched down to gather her things back into it: purse, phone, tissues, tampons, pens and make-up scattered in her wake.

‘Can I help you, madame ?’ A youngish man in beige shorts and a sky-blue T-shirt crouched down opposite her. His face was lightly tanned, and he sported a neatly clipped black beard. But his eyes were what her eyes were drawn to most – sharp and intelligent and almost the same colour as the sky.

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘No, it’s fine.’ She checked her phone, but luckily the screen wasn’t cracked.

‘You forgot these!’ he said, retrieving a pair of tights that she kept in there in case of in-office snags.

They unfurled as he handed them over, waving slightly in the gentle breeze.

To her horror, a pair of knickers that must have got caught on them in the wash shook loose and landed at their feet.

He looked slightly confused, but said nothing.

‘Thanks,’ she said, stuffing the tights into her bag and no doubt snagging them in the process, then bending down for the knickers. ‘I’d better…’ She gestured ahead of her and the man nodded.

‘Well, be careful,’ he said, looking pointedly at her shoes, clearly judging her choice of footwear.

She felt a surge of familiar short temper. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

He looked taken aback. ‘Perhaps these are not the best shoes to be wearing in Vaudrelle? The roads, they are not even.’

‘Perhaps,’ she said, feeling her eyelid twitch a little, ‘it’s none of your business.’

His eyes widened but he didn’t respond directly. ‘Well, sorry. Good day,’ he said, with a little upward inflexion of his shoulder.

They began to walk in the same direction, until she hung back a bit and pretended to fiddle with the strap of her shoe to let him get a head start. Then, when he was distant enough that she wouldn’t be keeping step with him any more, she straightened and continued her way.

To her annoyance the man went into the small door of the town hall, exactly where she was headed.

She pushed open the glass door behind him and stood in a reception area where a board informed her that there were several offices in situ – finances, something called CAF, and another with the unfortunate acronym ARS which her brain kept misreading.

Thankfully, the man was nowhere to be seen.

A woman looked up at her from behind a wooden counter and greeted her in French.

She had long, brown hair swept up into a bun; her face was make-up free, but had a glow that either suggested expensive facials or excellent genes.

Surprisingly for this formal environment, she sported jeans with her more formal, buttoned up blouse.

Having checked a few phrases online before setting off, Becky was ready. ‘ Bonjour ,’ she said. ‘ Je voudrais parler avec… um… le, la, le, la… the maire? ’

The woman smiled. ‘You can speak English, if you like?’ she said, with thinly disguised amusement.

‘Oh, thank God. Yes, I’d like to see the maire – make an appointment if that’s possible?’

At that moment, a door to the woman’s left marked ‘ Bureaux ’ opened and the man she’d seen earlier appeared. ‘You are here to see me?’

Of course. Of course, he was the maire .

‘Yes,’ she said, trying to keep her tone official. ‘About the café in town?’

He nodded, picking up a few folders from the desk and tucking them under his arm. ‘Come through,’ he said, indicating with his head that she should push open the door next to her.

When she did so, he was standing just inside, at the end of a small, tiled space, in front of a door with a gold plaque. He opened it for her, unsmiling, and gestured her inside.

She felt her eyelid take on a life of its own. She wondered, for a moment, whether eyelid twitching burned off any calories. If so, she’d have the body of her dreams in a few more weeks’ time.

He sat behind a desk piled with files and leaned forward. ‘So,’ he said. ‘We have already met. But let us start again. I am Georges Fournier, the mayor.’

‘Rebecca Thorne,’ she replied. ‘I’m sorry about…’

He waved a hand. ‘No matter. What can I help you with?’

She explained who she was, why she was there.

‘Oh, so you are Maud’s niece,’ he said, his manner changing, a smile once more stretching across his face. God, his teeth were white.

‘Yes,’ she said, not bothering to correct him with the ‘great-niece’ title. It would just confuse things.

‘Well then, you are very welcome, madame !’ he said. ‘Maud is a wonderful lady and has been the beating heart of our village for many years.’

The present tense disturbed her slightly – had he not heard of her aunt’s death, and was she about to shatter him with the news? Or was it simply that his English wasn’t as accomplished as she’d thought at first. Perhaps he was in the wrong tense out of necessity.

‘You know… of course that she…’ she began.

He nodded, his smile falling slightly. ‘Moved on? Yes, it is very sad. She had been running the café for many years. But she is in a good place.’

Becky nodded solemnly, feeling a little like a fraud. She hadn’t really grieved her aunt. The first she’d even heard of her death had been when she’d received the letter about the gift in her aunt’s Will. This man probably had more right to inherit from her than she did.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Anyway, she has given me the café, which I’m so grateful for.

But unfortunately, my life is in the UK.

I have a great job, good friends, somewhere to live.

’ An image of the lovely flat flashed into her mind, spurring her on.

‘What I’m saying is that I can’t adhere to the demands she’s made. ’

‘Demands?’ Georges’s eyebrows rose half an inch.

‘Yes.’ Becky explained about the requirement to work for a month. ‘Only in a hand-written letter,’ she said. ‘So it’s not really…’

Throughout, he nodded his head as if understanding, sympathising. ‘I see, I see,’ he said. And ‘Oh yes, it is difficult.’

‘So, do you think you can help?’

‘You want some advice in running the café?’ he asked, confused.

‘No.’ Had he literally not been listening? ‘I want to ask whether you can… help Pascal to understand that what Maud wanted, with all the love in the world, doesn’t really matter now, does it? And I’m sure…’

Georges’s expression clouded. ‘Surely you do not mean this? That you would go against your aunt’s wishes? She gave you her café, yes, but it is more than a café. It was her life.’

Becky nodded, wishing she’d chosen different words. ‘Oh, of course. Of course it matters . I didn’t mean… In an ideal world I’d love to do what she suggests. But it’s not practical.’

The maire , she noticed, had stopped nodding. His eyes bore into her. She shifted uncomfortably.

‘So you would like me to speak to Pascal and ask him to tear up the letter, c’est ca ?’ He mimed tearing a piece of paper and throwing it away.

‘You would?’ she asked, leaning forward, eyes wide.

‘ Non ,’ he said simply.

It was unlikely that she’d misunderstood what he meant by non , but she pushed on regardless. ‘You won’t?’

‘ Non .’

‘But you… it can’t be legally binding. Should I speak to a notaire ? Get someone legal on it?’

‘ Oui , you could.’ He nodded. Then he leaned forward again, his expression serious. His eyebrows, thick and bushy, were truly something to behold up close. ‘But I would not waste your time.’

‘Oh.’

‘You see, madame , there is the law, there is the letter of it. And there is the heart of it.’ He tapped a fist to his chest in case she was unaware of where hearts were located.

‘And I think perhaps you have the letter of it in your favour. But here in Vaudrelle we have the heart. We loved Maud when she was here. We love the café. We respect people’s wishes.

And we would prefer to take a little time. Do things right.’

‘What about my wishes?’

‘Your wishes. Well, I think you will get your wish eventually, madame . You will sell the café in a little while, I am sure. You will take your money and forget your aunt and do whatever it is you want to do with it.’

‘Look, I’m not a bad person or anything, it’s just?—’

‘Of course. But I’m afraid this is how things are.’

She took in his expression, his folded arms. All the friendliness had disappeared from his manner. Clearly he had decided she was the enemy.

‘Fine. I’ll go to the notaire . Get things moving that way!’ she said, hotly.

‘ Oui , of course, it is your right.’ Georges smiled, rather coldly.

‘But I think you will find that if you go to the notaire, he may not act very quickly. Perhaps he will think this is not an urgent matter. Maybe he will take many months to help you,’ he said, looking at her meaningfully.

‘And perhaps if you don’t want this terrible delay – ah, the legal profession, they are so slow!

– it would be better to do the right thing.

And I believe you will find that the right thing is also the quickest thing for you. ’

Was he threatening her? It was hard to tell.

‘You’re saying that he’d delay things on purpose?’

‘I am saying,’ he said, ‘that I think it is in your best interests to honour your aunt’s wishes. And perhaps that this will be the quickest way too.’

‘But…’

There was a silence as they looked at each other, at an impasse. Then, ‘ Madame ,’ he said. ‘I hope you are not suggesting anything improper?’

‘Sorry?’

‘I see that you are winking at me, giving me the eye? Madame , you are very beautiful. But I am sorry, I will not be seduced.’

‘Oh! No. It’s my eyelid. A stress thing!’ she said, putting her hand to her eye, which of course now started behaving itself and acting as if it hadn’t literally caused a #MeToo moment.

‘OK. Well, au revoir, madame ,’ he said, his tone still questioning.

She eyed his laptop. Her fingers twitched slightly.

But she managed to keep control of herself.

It definitely would not help to go causing criminal damage in the town hall on her first day.

Instead, she stood up, thanked him through gritted teeth and pushed her way out of his office, across the reception area and out into the sunny street.